by Unknown
"I don't recall giving you any matches."
"No," Solo said. "You forgot them. I hate to see a lady without her matches."
"Forgot them?"
"When you called on Inspector Tembo."
Solo watched for any sign of surprise, or any other sign. Jezzi Mahal showed nothing. The beautiful woman was either very innocent or very controlled.
"Inspector Tembo? I'm afraid I don't know the inspector very well. I certainly haven't seen him in months. And now, will you leave, or must I call for help?"
"You wouldn't really?" Solo said. "After all, I returned your matches. They could have been awkward."
"Awkward?" the woman said. "Because Tembo was murdered? Really, whoever you are, do you know how many of those matchbooks I have? How many people take them from my house?"
"How did you know Tembo was dead?"
Jezzi Mahal laughed. "I have many friends. The inspector's murder happened last night. Zambala is a small country. Now, must I become obnoxious?"
"I'll bet you could," Solo said.
"I could and will."
"I'll bet you'd even get me in trouble with Zamyatta," Solo said.
For the first time the woman showed a reaction. Almost imperceptibly her eyes glanced toward her desk, toward the drawer with the hidden compartment. She recovered so quickly Solo could almost have believed he had not startled her into the glance. But he had seen the faint motion.
"Mr. Zamyatta and I are not exactly friends," Jezzi Mahal said.
Solo raised a surprised eyebrow. 'No? How stupid of me. I meant Colonel Brown. The man in the picture there."
"The colonel is not a man to have for an enemy, whoever you may be," Jezzi Mahal said. "If you wish him for an enemy, it can be arranged."
"I'll bet it could," Solo said. "I better leave, hadn't I?"
"I strongly suspect it."
Solo grinned again and left the woman in the study. He walked easily across the living room, opened the doors—and closed them again. He jumped back into the cover of a large chair and crouched low. Unseen, he saw the woman come to the study door, look, and immediately go back. He heard her lift the receiver of the telephone.
Solo moved quickly to the doors again, opened them silently this time, and went out. He ran across the terrace and into the gully in the sand hills. He climbed up the hills to his car as fast as he could.
At the edge of the highway he looked carefully in all directions. People were on the beach again—men who carried weapons. Other men moved at a run through the sand hills below.
Solo grinned and ran for his car. He jumped in and started the engine. A long, black car appeared up the highway from the direction of San Pablo. It was coming fast. Solo threw his car into gear and drove off away from San Pablo.
The black car did not stop at The Silver Dunes. It came on at a fast pace.
Ahead there was a curve. Solo went around the curve and swerved off the road into a side road the instant the black car was hidden behind him. Moments later a jeep came around the bend from the opposite direction. The jeep and the black car raced together, passed, and both screeched to a halt. The two cars backed toward each other.
The man in uniform in the jeep looked up at the hills and at the side road. Two men jumped from the black car. The three men all looked at the side road.
Solo got out of his car, where he had parked it out of sight from the highway, but from where he could watch the road. He checked his U.N.C.L.E. Special and plunged silently into the bushes. He worked his way down the hillside.
On the highway the three men drew guns and started up the side road. They moved swiftly but warily. Hidden, Solo let them pass, and then worked the rest of the way down to the highway.
The man left in the black car neither saw nor heard Solo creep up on him. Not until the agent was almost on top of him. Then the man heard, turned, raised an ugly-looking Luger. Solo shot him in the neck with a sleep dart from his Special. The man collapsed.
Up on the side road there were loud voices. They had found his empty car. Solo leaped into the jeep. The keys were still in it. The three men were still running down the side road when he drove away in the jeep.
Solo raced back along the highway toward San Pablo. As he approached the gravel drive down to the beach house of Jezzi Mahal, he saw the men all across the road. Armed men. Solo bent low and pretended to slow the jeep. The men opened a path. Solo jammed down on the gas and the jeep leaped forward, through, and past the men.
He drove on, crouched low, but no shots came. He raised up and looked back. The black car was coming. Napoleon Solo grinned; they would not catch him now.
But someone was worried about what he might have found at The Silver Dunes.
FOUR
The International Tribunal held the special session in the San Pablo presidential palace, the former palace of the governor general. All members were there. Martin O'Hara held the floor.
"I am sorry to have to tell you, gentlemen, but I have definite indications that Opposition Leader Zamyatta, the Stengali, and Colonel Julio Brown of the second regiment appear to be involved in some form of plot!"
There was a hubbub in the ornate room that had once held the glitter of colonial pomp. The two Western members, and the Zambalan labor leader, Mark Boya, nodded their agreement with O'Hara. The Pole and the Indian demanded to know what kind of indications O'Hara had, demanded that he produce his evidence.
Carlos Ramirez listened for a time, and then banged for order. The room fell silent.
"If this is true, we must act. If it is true. I will call in the Organization of American States. But I agree that we must know what proof we have."
The tall old man glared like a lion around the table in the elegant room. His thick shock of white hair seemed to dominate them all. His strong, alert eyes flashed from face to face in the silent room. He pounded his cane harshly against the floor.
"I repeat, gentlemen, we must have proof!" Ramirez said in a voice that had lost none of its power. "I have perhaps more than anyone to lose in this island if Zamyatta should come to power in a coup, but I will not let my personal business blind me to justice and the will of the people."
The old poet and patriot glared around him. Then he faced O'Hara.
"What exactly is your information, O'Hara?"
O'Hara hesitated. All the proof he had was the possible murder of Tembo by the Mahal woman, the list in her desk that he could not produce, and the experiences of Illya and Solo.
"Very well," and O'Hara told them what he had learned, but without telling them of U.N.C.L.E. He made it sound as if some chance information had come to friends of his.
There was another silence. Ramirez frowned, his craggy old grandee's face set in lines of thought. The Pole and the Indian member sneered.
"None of that can be called proof," the Pole said.
"We have had many rumors since we came here," the Indian pointed out mildly.
"I say it's enough," Mark Boya, the labor leader said.
"We do have a national crisis to consider," one of the two Western members said.
Ramirez listened, and then the old man spoke. "No, we do not have enough proof to charge Zamyatta and Colonel Brown. What O'Hara tells us is enough to convince me, perhaps, but we must be sure. The future of Zambala is at stake. I suggest that we alert the premier and the deputy premier, and that they quietly prepare all the military units they know to be loyal.
"I suggest we be ready, that we make quiet preparations to protect San Pablo. The deputy premier will know what to do. But we must make no move, no public announcement until we have more proof to show the world."
The members of the tribunal looked at each other. There was a general nodding of heads, all but the Polish member, who frowned. Ramirez smiled.
"Good," Ramirez said. "By tomorrow, I hope we will know more. The future of much more than Zambala is at stake."
In a small room at the other end of the presidential palace, Illya and Solo sat at a table
and leaned over a small radio receiver. O'Hara had his set open, and the two agents had listened to the entire discussion. Now Illya looked up.
"He is a hard man to convince, Napoleon."
"He is that," Solo said.
"Still, he may be right. We don't really know yet what they plan to do," Illya said.
"Then I suggest we find out," Solo said.
"My thought exactly," Illya said.
"The second regiment?" Solo asked.
"That seems the most likely place. It is very hard to hide the movements of a regiment," Illya agreed.
"Shall we go?"
The two agents left the small room and went down the wide corridors of the palace. They left the building by a secret entrance known only to O'Hara—a special precaution of the U.N.C.L.E. team in San Pablo.
They emerged through the thick bushes around the palace on its wide, park-like grounds. On another hill above the city, the two agents could see the night lights of San Pablo below.
They moved quickly to Solo's stolen jeep, drove down the wide ceremonial Mall that led from the palace to the highway into San Pablo.
They reached a point where the highway into the city curved high and close to the sea. The sea itself was far below, the lights of the city directly ahead. A low wall separated the road from the rocks high above the sea, and on the far side of the jagged rocks there was a sheer drop.
It was at this spot that the shots rang out.
Solo felt the jeep go. It bucked and slewed across the highway, both front tires shot out. Solo fought to hold control. The jeep hurtled down the road, careening from side to side of the road. Twice they bounced off the low wall without going over.
At last Solo brought the jeep to a stop against the wall above the sea. The two agents did not pause to feel lucky or to catch their breath. They were out of the jeep, over the parapet, and crouching behind the parapet on the rocks above the sheer drop before the jeep had stopped vibrating from the impact.
Across the highway, from among the trees on the vast grounds of the presidential palace, men moved down to the highway. A dozen men in uniform. It was a uniform the two agents had not seen until now, a regular army uniform. British-made khaki shorts, high socks and heavy black boots, khaki shirts and light brown berets.
The men coming after the two agents were regular soldiers!
"What do you think?" Illya said.
Solo looked over the wall. "I'd have a guess that that patch on their shoulders belongs to the second motorized regiment."
"My thought exactly," Illya said. "The Mahal girl?"
"It has that feeling," Solo said.
"Or someone on the tribunal," Illya said.
"Don't even say it," Solo said.
"I'll say something more to the point."
"And that would be?"
"How do we get out of here?" Illya said.
Solo looked at the soldiers, who had reached the highway now, then down at the sea breaking angry on the rocks far below. Then he looked to the right, where the wall and the cliff joined a few yards away and left nothing but open space for birds all the way down. Then he looked left—to the left there was enough room to walk, and ledges of rocks leading down. It was a way for goats, but it was the only way.
"Left," Solo said, "and fast."
Crouched below the wall, the two agents moved as fast as they could to the left. They peered over the wall in the night to see where the soldiers were. The soldiers had reached the jeep and found it empty. Now the soldiers came running down the road. Illya opened fire. The soldiers went to ground and began to fire back. The fire was high over the agents' heads.
Solo led the way along the narrow cliff, then down to the first ledge. But the going was too slow.
"I'll have to hold them," Illya cried. "You go on!"
Illya leaped back up to the wall. Resting his Special on the parapet, he opened fire. Solo continued on down, ledge to ledge, as fast as he could, but it was very slowly. Above, Illya continued his covering fire until the soldiers, well-trained and skilled, worked around and had him covered from two sides.
Halfway down the cliff Solo looked up and saw Illya stand with his hands up. The soldiers swarmed around Illya. But they did not give up with the capture of one man. Leaning over the parapet they opened fire on Solo, called on him to surrender. Their shots were still too high, but Solo was pinned against the cliff ledge. He looked down.
Below, the water seemed deep. He could see no rocks. At the next fusillade Solo cried out, clutched his chest, and let himself fall over the edge of the ledge down into the sea.
Above, the soldiers turned away with their prisoner.
The night became silent.
Below in the water nothing moved.
ACT III: COUP, COUP, WHO'S GOT THE COUP?
ONE
The sea outside the harbor of San Pablo is an angry one. It breaks against the cliffs and deserted beaches that curve out toward the sea itself until the beaches reach the opening into the harbor.
Inside the fine harbor the water is calm and sheltered, and anyone who swims does so on the harbor side. On the sea side, below the cliffs and on the beaches there is nothing but the surf and the flotsam of the sea.
This night, on one of the empty beaches below the cliff road, among the driftwood and seaweed, something rose from the white water, staggered, and fell again. The figure struggled up, falling and rising, until it lay beyond the reach of the surf on the silent beach. The figure was Napoleon Solo, bruised and half drowned.
After a time, Solo raised his head and looked around. The beach was as deserted as it had seemed. Nothing at all moved in the night. From time to time a car passed high on the road above the beach and the cliffs. Solo stood up. He checked his arms and legs, but there were only bruises. Nothing was broken by the rocks.
It was time to go to work.
Aware that when a coup threatened you could not afford to trust anyone, Solo walked the miles from the beach to the mansion of O'Hara above the city. He his whenever a car passed. It was close to morning by the time he staggered into the mansion, and, behind the bookcase in the silent rooms of U.N.C.L.E. in Zambala, told the story to O'Hara.
"What do you want to do?" O'hara asked.
"Go after Illya. Do you know what the insignia of the second regiment looks like?"
O'Hara went to a filing cabinet and took out a folder. He showed Solo a picture. It was the insignia worn by the soldiers who had attacked on the cliff road. Solo nodded.
"Right, then I'm going to their camp. Are they in their regular camp?"
"At Tidworth Barracks, ten miles northeast on the Real Plain," O'Hara said. "You want help?"
"No, we can't tip U.N.C.L.E.'s hand yet, and your men might be known," Solo said. "I'll just need a car."
"Take the small Triumph. It's equipped. Smoke, extra guns, bombs in the usual places, super-charged for extra speed."
"Right," Solo said.
Ten minutes later the powerful little Triumph was on the road into the mountains again. Napoleon Solo drove swiftly with the sun up and bright over the tall blue mountains. The small car ate up the ten miles. A sign on the side of the road told Solo that Tidworth was one mile ahead. He drove more carefully.
His sharp eyes began to notice things. There were troops in the fields on both sides of the road—troops and vehicles in full battle dress. On the sides of the mountains there were flashes that showed high observation posts. Small planes flew over from time to time as if reconnoitering the area.
These were not the normal activities of a regiment in barracks.
Solo continued to drive. Ahead he saw a roadblock. He eased the Triumph up to the wire. Four soldiers watched him. A sergeant stepped up to check his papers. Solo handed him the specially-prepared papers that identified him as George Solo, uniform salesman from New York.
"And why are you here, sir?" the sergeant asked.
"To sell uniforms, naturally," Solo said with a smile.
"Really?
The colonel made no mention of a uniform salesman visiting the barracks today."
"Ah, yes. Well the colonel doesn't know. I, ah, just decided to visit Zambala's best regiment to see if I could find a few, shall we say, flaws in the present uniforms."
"On your own, sir?"
"Ah, yes, all my own little idea," Solo said with a dazzling smile. "Of course, the premier knows I'm here."
"I see, sir. Very good. Then I'm sure the colonel will welcome you."
Solo eased the Triumph into reverse. "Well, as a matter of fact I can see that you're busy, so I think I'll just come back some other time."
The sergeant nodded to his men. They stood around the Triumph with their rifles pointed very accurately at Solo's chest.
The sergeant nodded again, this time to Solo.
"I know you want to see the colonel. Such a long trip, you don't want to leave empty-handed, I'm sure."
Solo looked at the rifles and got out of the car.
* * *
Illya lay on the floor of the room. He was not tied, and the room had a window. Looking out, he could see the grounds of the complex of buildings, and the soldiers walking across the grounds. But the window was barred, and three stories up with no holds to the ground.
Where he lay he considered what had happened. After his capture there had been the trip in the truck guarded by the soldiers. The arrival at what was obviously a barracks station of some regiment, and his delivery to an officer, who promptly locked him in this room. Papers had been handed to the officer. The officer had treated him well, but refused t listen to him.
Ever since then he had been fed regularly. He was not bound or chained, no one had bothered him or questioned him. He was simply being held in what was clearly a guardroom just like any military prisoner.
Illya Kuryakin was puzzled.
The soldiers who had attacked Solo and himself had shot at them, literally kidnapped him. Yet when they arrived with him here at the barracks they had handed him over with papers as if he were a prisoner being transferred. They kidnapped him by force, yet treated him more like a prisoner of war.
They had not eve searched him or taken away his watch, belt, rings, shoes or clothes. They had fed him well; he had seen no one but the soldier who brought his food since he had arrived. No one kept him from looking out the window—and from the window he could clearly see the preparations.
